


unfolding in a place to call its own

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Introspection, POV Second Person, Post 3x13, discussed Lincoln/Daisy, intersectional feminist superhero Daisy Johnson, not Lincoln friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6273787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sorry," you say in the end, and you're so used to it now the word trips off your tongue without hesitation. It's like an ICER shot aimed at yourself. <em>Sorry.</em> Making yourself smaller, something you've learned since the very first foster house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unfolding in a place to call its own

It starts like a folding-in.

You don't deal well with anger. It sounds stupid - you're angry, you're so  _angry_ , all of the time, you've been angry for justice since you recorded those Rising Tide podcasts so long ago - but anger, this very specific kind of anger that displays itself through clenched fists and raised voices and men, always men, telling you how hard their lives have been, it speaks to something very small and fragile within you, and you curl in to protect it. To protect her, maybe.

As if your own life's been so easy, you think. He says it with scorn. Hackingyour way through life. He knows how you grew up. Living in the system, and the van, and of course he knows about your parents. He was there for most of that. You told him the rest late one night. Opened yourself right up, laid yourself vulnerable, and the casually classist dismissal stings all the harder for the fact that he  _knows_ nothing came easy to you.

You walk away, and you take deep breaths, and you try so hard to consider his point of view. Sometimes it feels like that's all you're doing. There's a knot in your chest and you don't know whether it's because of the fight or the possibility that he'll leave or the fear still blooming when you think about a government agent  _curing_ you at gunpoint. (You're desperately afraid he'll leave. You lose everything, in the end. You're used to it. But regardless, you're  _afraid_. You don't get anything for yourself very often, and Lincoln, he feels like something you can have, just this once.)

(Something deep inside you whispers,  _what if he stays. Will it always be like this. Will you fold yourself small_ , and you try, very hard, not to listen.)

"Sorry," you say in the end, and you're so used to it now the word trips off your tongue without hesitation. It's like an ICER shot aimed at yourself.  _Sorry_. Making yourself smaller, something you've learned since the very first foster house. You want this, you do, and you want him not to leave, and what happens next, you want that too. You know it's a combination of the two. It's something you've done all along. Lincoln's hands are warm on your skin, and you breathe into it, and it feels like something you can have. Something precious. Something worth compromising for, except- you don't know if you can compromise  _this_.

 _Your powers are so easy to control._ (You broke your arms holding them in. Hairline fractures up to the shoulder. So easy to control, to turn inward.)

 

 _Did you know that you have a habit of apologizing for things that aren't your fault_ , Andrew says somewhere in your memory. _Opinions you worry you're voicing too strongly. You'll start arguing with me, and then you pull back._ You pull your feet up onto the chair, rest your chin on your knees. Let your hair fall over your face. You're still in sweatpants. This must be pretty soon after it all happened.  _Where does that come from?_

 _I broke a glass, once_ , you'd told him, and his eyes were very soft and very understanding. _And I argued with a foster dad about minority rights. Wanted to join a gay-straight alliance, had to get a guardian's signature._ You didn't even have to tell him what happened next, not like with your mom, but you'd been practising saying things out loud. You'd been doing these sessions for a while now, and you hate shrinks, but-

When you're done, there's a long pause.  _Argue with me_ , Andrew encourages you.  _Say what you mean. Tell me what you think._

You'd been getting really good at it. Feeling safe telling him what you think. He listened, and he didn't get angry, and now, when you think about it, you wonder how he held it together. He'd had every right to argue. To tell you it was a disease, something life-destroying, something you should be working harder to find a cure for. He never did, never said a word in argument, just let you talk passionately about your people and your choices and the way it could be something so pure and wonderful and _good_.

Andrew never got a choice, you think before you can help it. That's not your fault. Jiaying's decisions aren't your own. (You almost believe that, except when you look at Coulson, and then you feel the apology fill your mouth a thousand times.) Andrew  _never got a choice_ , didn't live deliberate and certain in a community that would welcome him in, didn't learn his history and his power with someone supportive teaching him the way, and he didn't throw it back in your face the way Lincoln just did. 

 

When Coulson gets back, you realize you've missed him. It's stupid. You don't even talk anymore, but you missed him anyway.

"Lincoln thinks we've found a cure," you tell him, and he doesn't even pause.

"A cure would mean it's a disease," he says, so seriously you think he must have said it before. The words catch in your heart. You don't want to be cured. You're not an illness or a contagion. You're a birthright, a gift, a force for protection. You're a weapon forged for nobody to use (but you'll wield yourself in every fight.) You're exactly who you're supposed to be. It matters, that Coulson sees this. He doesn't think you need  _fixing_. It matters. 

Is this what he's been saying, you wonder, and think about hearts beating in unison. While you were arguing your humanity with one of your own, was Coulson defending you? You could love him a little, if that's true. 

Your mother loved a human (your mother was crazy. Everybody says so, now. You say so, wishing it were true.)

_Could you-_

You try not to think about it. Coulson respects you, and that's enough. That's got to be enough. 

"Daisy?" he says, and you blink, wonder if he's been trying to get your attention for a while.

"Sorry," you say, "sorry, I- tuned out there for a minute, sorry, you want to start over?"

"You look tired," he tells you, all gentle concern shining in his eyes, and god, you do love him, you do. "Sleeping okay?"

"I'm fine," you say, maybe sharper than you mean to. "How was the alien symposium?" If you use the word it can't hurt you, you think, and you're wrong; even the word in your mouth stings.

(You're not sleeping okay. That fragile and tiny voice within you keeps refusing to let you fold yourself any smaller, and you're beginning to wonder if you should listen. You lie awake and listen to Lincoln's even breathing and wonder how beautiful you could be, if you unfurled yourself.)

 

The next time you argue, you don't say sorry. Hold it back, bite your teeth over the words that keep trying to spill out. He pushes and pushes and you push right back, listen as hard as you can to Andrew's voice encouraging you on.

"You don't get it," he tells you, as if he does, as if he's the leader on this mission, and you wonder before you can help it what it would take to demand respect.

"Back up," you snap, sick of being condescended to, and you can tell as soon as you've said it that he doesn't like you telling him what to do. Lightning on his palms, and his hands tightening into fists, and you feel that sickly familiar fear again, the kind that sits in your stomach and closes up your throat, and you listen to yourself. You've learned this. Your body's taught you what you need; you didn't have to go to college to know this.

This is the moment, you'll think later, that you knew you couldn't compromise any further. The moment you stopped hurting yourself to let him unfold. And when he tells you he's leaving for Cincinnati it still hurts, it hurts like a failure and like the third foster house where you weren't a good fit and like your mother's eyes when she decided you were an enemy to her plans. But you're  _done_ making yourself soft and controlled and calm so that men don't feel threatened by how bright you shine.

 

Coulson finds you in the room Andrew used as his office, looks surprised to see you. It's late. The base is dark. You're sitting in the patient's armchair, knees drawn up to your chin. You couldn't sleep, missing everything you've lost.

"Sorry," he says softly, "didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's okay," you tell him. "Want to stay?" He sits down on the couch, glances around. Rests his hands on his thighs. If you weren't listening to his vibrations, the new one would look like your mother had never happened.

"I'm sorry Lincoln left," he says. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"You're in Andrew's office, but you're not my shrink," you tease, and Coulson laughs briefly, looks contemplative as he falls silent. "I thought being with someone like me would make things easier," you say after a pause. "I thought he'd know what I-"

"He doesn't?" Coulson asks. "He didn't?"

"We're not a disease," you say, and Coulson looks up, startled. Looks right at you.

"No," he says. "Of course you're not."

"I'm not responsible for all this." It's something you were working on.  _I am not responsible for my parents' choices. I am not my mother and father. I did the best I could, to save lives._  You don't know if you believe it. You were destined to lead your people, just like your mother. Just like Raina said you would. You caused the outbreak (but it's not a _disease_ , and you don't need to be cured). You're not your mother, but- you understand why you think you might be, sometimes. You wonder if your mother ever loved an Inhuman. 

"No," Coulson says again. "No, you're not. Of course you're not."

"But-" you say, and your voice breaks. "Coulson, I'm so sorry, I-" His palm is warm when he touches your cheek. You're sorry for so much. You found your parents and lost them, and found Lincoln and lost him, and maybe you found Coulson and lost him too, except that he's right here, and he's not demanding anything from you except yourself. 

He apologizes too for things that aren't his fault. Carries them around like a weight he's responsible for, so heavy you can see it in his eyes. You know what that's like. You think, again, about Coulson defending you every chance he can get. Looking at you like you're not just human but the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Like you're a gift he can't believe, sometimes.

Your mother loved a human, once. Could you?

(You do. You do. And you unfold.)


End file.
